


a midsummer night's bard

by shestepsintotheriver



Series: non-human Jaskier [7]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Creature Jaskier | Dandelion, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Fluff, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Saves the Day, Hijinks & Shenanigans, M/M, Minor Aiden/Lambert (The Witcher), Minor Triss Merigold/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Misunderstandings, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Really bad disguises, also witchers in beautiful dresses, faerie!Jaskier, faeries from A Midsummer Night's Dream, or well he tries, witchers in ill-fitting dresses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:48:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27894085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shestepsintotheriver/pseuds/shestepsintotheriver
Summary: "You know, funny thing, but theoretically, if I were to tell you that maybe, perhaps, perchance I wasn’t—""Human? I know."*Jaskier thinks that Geralt knows what he is (a Faerie. More specifically, a puck).And Geralt thinks that he knows what Jaskier is (an Elf).When Jaskier gets dragged into a Faerie ring, Geralt overreacts, just a little.The Witcher meets the Faeries from A Midsummer Night's Dream meets That One Norse Myth Where Loki and Thor Dress in Drag.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: non-human Jaskier [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1785946
Comments: 120
Kudos: 402





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i am more or less done with my MA thesis and this is my reward
> 
> Content warnings for this chapter:  
> \- idiots who think they're communicating but they really aren't  
> \- morning coitus interruptus  
> \- Geralt loves Jaskier very much  
> \- Geralt panics. just a smidge. just a little

They don’t discuss Jaskier’s species in any detail. Which is the problem, but Geralt doesn’t know that yet.

*

One day, some ten years or so into their friendship (Geralt doesn’t call it that yet, but it’s only through sheer stubbornness that he keeps from doing so), Jaskier says, “You know, funny thing, but theoretically, if I were to tell you that maybe, perhaps, _perchance_ I wasn’t—”

“Human? I know.”

“Wait. What? _You know_?”

“Hmm.” It means, _I’m a Witcher. Of course, I bloody know_.

And that’s that. Well, apart from that time where Geralt asks Jaskier why he didn’t drop his glamour when they were getting kicked around by Filavandrel’s lot. Jaskier just laughs at him. “Please, Geralt, my ruling house and the Scoia’tael are not exactly _simpatico_. Might as well throw water on burning oil.” A beat. “Where’s my notebook, I need to write that down—”

Geralt shrugs and moves on. He doesn’t know much about the internal politics of Elf culture, but he does know that they aren’t a monolith. That there are different and even warring factions is not exactly a surprise. He does wonder briefly which faction Jaskier might belong to then, and that curiosity never quite goes away, even if he suppresses it ruthlessly. Judging by how long it took Jaskier just to mention that he wasn’t human, Geralt assumes that questions aren’t welcome. Jaskier never mentions it either—and given how he can talk about _everything else in the world,_ his cultural identity is likely private, something that non-Elves aren’t supposed to know about.

So Geralt doesn’t ask, even if he wants to.

(Once, he calls Jaskier a Banshee and gets squawked at for a whole day. “ _Banshees aren’t even close to my kind_!” Geralt knows this. Banshees are Faeries of some kind or other, and Jaskier is an Elf. He’s just so damn noisy, it’s like being followed around by a flock of birds. Geralt calls him a Banshee several more times, whenever Jaskier is particularly annoying. He can reach some very Banshee-like notes when he’s offended.)

(Really, that should’ve been a clue.)

(Geralt would like it noted that in his defence, Jaskier was very oblique about the whole thing.)

(Jaskier would like it noted that Geralt is supposed to be a professional.)

(This argument can go on for hours, so let’s move on.))

*

Geralt wakes over-heated and slightly disoriented, as is the standard for midsummer mornings and the after-effects of deep, proper sleep. He kicks the blankets off and stretches, letting out a yawn that Jaskier would absolutely make fun of if he were awake; Geralt would snap his teeth at him and possibly tackle him if he didn’t stop trying to poke at Geralt’s pointier eyeteeth.

But Jaskier isn’t awake just yet; he is sprawled in the most uncomfortable-looking position next to Geralt, wrists bent in a way that surely means his hands must be fairly buzzing with pins and needles, and half-covered by the blanket in way that means that he must be boiling with heat. Geralt worms his way across the bed to him, curling in just close enough to rub his nose against the nape of Jaskier’s neck, but not close enough to plaster them together. Jaskier smells sleep-warm and clean. Geralt buries his whole face in his skin.

His belly and chest are filling with bubbles.

For five months, they have been chasing each other, teasing and prodding and pushing, almost succumbing only to be interrupted again and again… and again, because fate is a cruel mistress (“but at least it means we’re getting fucking by _something_ , since we can’t catch a break to fuck each other,” Jaskier had muttered. Geralt’d _hmm_ ed in agreement. Five months ago, he and Jaskier had seemed to get oodles of time to themselves. But not anymore because fuck you, that’s why.)

But today! Today is the day. Geralt is sure of it.

They’ve finally got a moment all to themselves, no crises, no distractions. They’re holed up in Yen’s Temerian abode for the midsummer check-in with Ciri. Eskel and Lambert have even made the trip, and Triss is here, too—though that is a surprise to exactly no one, given how she and Yen make eyes at each other when they think no one is looking. If Geralt listens closely, he can just make out the morning-rough voices of his brothers in the kitchen, likely getting started on breakfast.

He leaves Jaskier in bed to go get some things ready (and by that, he means that he rushes to the kitchen, issues a dire warning to his brothers not to disturb them for at least an hour (they faux-gag at him _and_ wolf whistle), collects what he needs, and rushes back.)

Jaskier is still asleep; good. He’s flung an arm out towards where Geralt had lain next to him.

Geralt sips from the glass of mint-water he’d collected. The taste is sharp and sudden, making his eyes sting; it scours his gums and burns all the way down. Geralt hates using it, but it works and it’s quick. Then, he prods Jaskier out of sleep.

Jaskier does _not_ come awake gracefully. He’s bleary-eyed and confused, just a tad grumpy and whiny as Geralt sits him up and makes him drink. The mint-water has him making loud, squeaky protests and he looks at Geralt with betrayal. At least he’s fully awake now (and morning breath-free).

“How dare—” he starts, but Geralt kisses him quiet. The noises Jaskier makes then are much nicer.

They’ve kissed before—it’s all they’ve had _time_ to do—but Geralt still feels like a trembling youth whenever it happens. Jaskier gives himself up so easily, welcomes Geralt’s kisses and touch and pulls him in. They fumble away the blankets clumsily, eagerly.

“We won’t be disturbed,” Geralt promises.

“ _Oh._ What _fortunate_ news.”

Their touches grow less innocent by the minute. Geralt takes his time, winding Jaskier up bit by bit; kisses him slow and thorough, licks into his mouth, and sucks his tongue until Jaskier’s sighs gain sound and turn to moans that Geralt answers with his own. His hands roam lazily, slipping under Jaskier’s threadbare chemise to feel the soft skin of his back and belly, clutching at his legs and guiding them around Geralt’s waist until Jaskier’s on top of him, grinding down just a little bit, just a tease, just a taste.

Jaskier pulls his hair and nips his throat and Geralt shudders. He wants out of his braies, wants Jaskier naked, wants to clutch him to his chest, spread his legs, and flip him over, wants to put his mouth on his neck, his spine, his—

There’s a tapping on the window.

They pause and blink at each other.

There’s another tap, and they turn their heads.

“Are you kidding me?” Jaskier hisses.

There’s a bird waiting just outside, a pretty turtle dove, and it’s staring intently at them. When neither of them move, it taps the glass again, and hops around to indicate the small scroll tied to its leg.

What—

“Fuck,” Jaskier says and scrambles out of bed. Which is an outrageous development and Geralt frowns at him now-empty lap. Can he hunt down fate and maim it a little? Because he’s feeling very harassed. It’s not _fair_. Jaskier groans. “I have to go—”

“What.”

Instead of answering, Jaskier pushes the little note at him. It reads, _The King requests your immediate presence. It is a matter of the highest urgency._ And a little postscript in a different hand, _The Queen has done it again._ The dove watches them curiously with suspiciously intelligent eyes. (Its feathers look very soft, though. Geralt would want to try and pet it if it weren’t for the fact that its appearance is robbing him of Jaskier. (Geralt still kind of want to pet it).)

Geralt frowns harder at the note. “You need me to come with you?”

“No, that’ll just complicate things,” Jaskier’s says. He sounds as frustrated as Geralt feels, which helps a little. It would’ve been nice to see where Jaskier’s from, but Geralt won’t push. “Believe you me, you do not want to get stuck in that quagmire. Useless royal twits—”

He dresses and gathers his things, kisses Geralt goodbye (a drawn-out process that only stops because the damn bird literally forces itself between their faces and flaps its wings at them) and promises to be back by sundown, not to worry, it’s not far, Jaskier’s got it all in hand. Off he goes, with the dove trailing after him. Geralt smushes his face against Jaskier’s pillow and tries not to mope.

(Ciri cheerfully and remorselessly informs him that he’s acting like an offended puppy when he goes down the kitchen to squirrel away some breakfast.

Eskel and Lambert cackle. Geralt will kick both their asses… later.)

*

Jaskier has forgotten to pack the oil for his lute.

Geralt finds the little bottle hidden among their things barely ten minutes after Jaskier has left. At first, he mistakes it for the intimate oil that he himself had bought at the last market they’d been too, almost pathetically hopeful that they’d get to use it that night (they did not), so he moves to pack it away. That’s when he notices the label; it still has the price written on it and he has to force himself not to shudder. Who spends that much money on lute cleaner? (Jaskier. Jaskier does. He gets that oil specially made and uses it sparingly, treating it almost like liquid gold. And he’d wanted to clean the lute properly now that—)

Well. Shit.

He brought his lute with him when he left, but not the oil. He wouldn’t have forgotten. He must’ve packed the other oil by mistake; he _did_ hurry out the door. Normally, Geralt wouldn’t think anything of it, would just shrug and let Jaskier ramble his annoyance when he got back. But he was summoned to _court_ and he brought his _lute…_ he probably planned to play it for the king and queen—

There’s nothing for it. Geralt will just have to hunt him down before he reaches his destination.

It feels a little bit like betrayal as he saddles Roach and heads out; Jaskier hadn’t wanted him to come, hasn’t wanted to talk about where he’s from or who his people are, but hopefully, he’ll forgive Geralt.

Jaskier hasn’t bothered to hide his tracks, so Geralt follows them easily, nudging Roach into a fast trot. After a while, they veer off the road and into the undergrowth, making their path slower and more arduous (not even Jaskier can make Geralt risk Roach by having her stumble recklessly through the woods, he’ll simply have to wait for them to make their way to him).

Finally, he catches snippets of Jaskier’s voice up ahead. He’s speaking in Elder—or some _form_ of Elder, must be a particular Elvish dialect; Geralt sure isn’t familiar with it, even as the pronunciation seems more or less the same as what he’s used to—and he sounds perfectly relaxed, if a little annoyed still.

But just as Geralt breaks through the trees, Jaskier yelps.

Heart in his chest, Geralt looks up.

Just in time to see Jaskier get pulled into a faerie ring and disappear.

*

What follows is, in hindsight, an overreaction.

(But in Geralt’s defence, it seemed like an emergency at the time.)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content:  
> \- Geralt being dramatic  
> \- Eskel being The Oldest Child  
> \- Lambert's... interesting planning skills  
> \- clothes fitting unrealistically alright despite everything to the contrary  
> \- Ciri being A Boss
> 
> EDIT: THIS CHAPTER NOW HAS ART SEE ENDNOTES

Geralt comes storming through the courtyard gates, yelling, “ _They’ve taken_ —fuck.” The courtyard is empty. He dismounts and bursts through the front doors instead. “ _They’ve taken Jaskier_.”

Lambert and Eskel, both of them with food sticking out of their mouths and a comically surprised look on their faces, chorus, “Who?”

“The Faerie.”

“Why?”

“ _I don’t know_.” It could be anything. Politics, maybe—Geralt doesn’t know much about Faerie-Elf relations, but he’s definitely going to learn more about it after this, just to be on the safe side. It could also be that a Faerie simply spotted Jaskier and collected him, like a shiny gem. Faeries do have a tendency to ignore the intelligence and autonomy of other beings, especially when they want to keep them as pets. (Jaskier does that, too, in fact, though not quite to the same degree as Faeries have been known to do. Jaskier just attaches himself and bullies you into becoming his friend, he doesn’t steal people.) “Where’s Yen, I need—”

“She’s not here,” Eskel says. “She and Triss were summoned by the Lodge.”

“Fuck.” Geralt paces. “ _Fuck_. Any idea when they’ll be back?”

“Not for a few days, she said.”

“But,” Lambert says. “We’ll help you.”

Geralt stares at him. “Hmm.”

“ _Alright, that’s it_. _See if I help you with that attitude!_ ”

*

In the end, Geralt gracelessly accepts his brothers’ help. Mainly because he doesn’t have a plan that doesn’t include Yennefer storming through the portal and unleashing hell on anyone unwilling to give Jaskier back. Daylight is burning in their world; who knows how time works in the Faerie realm? What if Jaskier has been there for years already? They need to act _now_.

In a surprising twist to end all twists, Lambert is the one to come up with a plan. Not necessarily a good plan, but it’s the only one they’ve got that _might_ work, with a bit of luck. Just a small measure. Perhaps a tiny mountain of luck.

He says, “Yennefer must have cast-off dresses stored somewhere, right? If she doesn’t, we’ll have to rob someone first.” A beat. “Maybe we should just rob someone. I don’t know that we’ll fit in Yen’s dresses, she’s _tiny_.”

They don’t rob anyone, mainly because it’d take too much time and too much risk. Besides, Yennefer _does_ have cast-offs lying around. In fact, she has a whole room full of things she no longer has any use for. Geralt is slightly appalled that so many clothes are just forgotten; there are multiple things that could be repurposed. (And if Geralt somewhere, in his heart of hearts, wished he had that many fine clothes, that’s no one’s business but his.)

Ciri passes them in the hallway and looks at them quizzically. When Geralt briefly explains what’s happened, she quickly nods and scurries off to Melitele knows where. He hopes it’s to contact Yennefer. Can Ciri do that yet? Gods, this is why they have check-ins; so that he’ll _know_ what’s happening in his child’s life.

“What do we do if it turns out that Yennefer actually has need of these?” Eskel asks as they’re digging through the masses and masses of dresses to find something, _anything_ , that can be modified easily by three men whose sewing prowess—while not non-existent—mainly pertains to keeping their own clothes from falling apart on the road.

“We die, I guess,” Lambert says with a shrug.

“That’s not helping,” Geralt growls at him.

“Oh, I’m sorry, my earnestness ran out when you made your _scary face_ at my suggestion.”

“I don’t—stop using Jaskier’s expressions against me—”

While they squabble, Eskel manages to find three dresses. With steely determination and vast applications of patience, he gets his brothers stuffed into them and then puts on his own. Then, they stand in front of the cracked mirror, frowning at their reflections. Their skirts all fall above way above their ankles, despite having been made to sweep along the floor. Eskel’s dress is completely sleeveless, barely more than a bodice with a skirt; Lambert’s has a deep cleavage and is tied around his neck in a halter; and Geralt’s has a slit almost all the way up to his groin, baring one leg.

“I fail to see how this will get us in,” he says. “We don’t even look like women.”

“Don’t be a bigot, there are plenty of muscular, hairy women,” Lambert assures him distractedly. He’s far too busy stuffing cloth down the front of his dress, creating some highly asymmetrical breasts. He runs his fingers through his hair. “Should I wear a hat?”

“There are no muscular, hairy women who would be caught dead in these outfits.” A beat. “And a hat won’t be enough, you need a veil.”

“How did you get this idea anyway?” asks Eskel. His dress keeps sliding down; he clutches at it desperately to keep from flashing his whole chest (rather than just most of his chest, as the dress is not made for covering up anything). If he had smaller shoulders and curvier hips, perhaps the bodice would stay where it’s supposed to. “Geralt, can you lace me up? I don’t think I got it right.”

While his brothers are distracted, Lambert mutters, “A friend told me about it once.”

Geralt stops what he’s doing at once. He and Eskel look at each other. Look at Lambert. Chorus, “What friend.”

“I have friends.”

“Sure.”

“Fuck you. Aiden _is_ my friend.”

They blink at him. Eskel says, “Wait, I thought Aiden was your lover—”

Lambert gapes. “ _You know about that_?”

“ _It was a secret_?”

“Stop bickering,” Geralt snaps. “We’re getting off track.”

Jaskier has to take priority; they can squabble about Lambert’s emotional ineptitude and terrible secret-keeping later. (And there _will_ be squabbling, because what the shit, Lambert has been bringing Aiden to Kaer Morhen for almost half a decade now. No one ever thought they were ‘just friends’, not even Eskel’s goats whose thoughts are bent on shenanigans, not mortal stupidity.)

They can’t do anything about the skirt length, so they just pull on their boots underneath. Maybe the Faerie won’t notice if they’re not flashing their pale legs? As for the copious amounts of chest hair, they’ll just have to hope that the Faerie are much less concerned about traditional gender attributes than humanity generally is. Like Lambert said, there are many different kinds of women, some of whom look like they do, or simply men who prefer dresses to trousers—but you usually don’t find such people in towns as small as this.

Of course, there are also the scars they can’t hide, and their eyes. They manage to veil themselves with scarves, hiding their hair and beards, but they can’t wear blindfolds. It’ll just have to do.

“Lambert, go over the plan one more time?” Eskel prompts as they’re figuring out how to smuggle their swords with them.

“We’re noblewomen trying to broker a marriage contract,” Lambert repeats.

“A marriage contract for who?”

“… another noblewoman.”

“I should’ve waited for Yen,” Geralt mutters.

Right at that moment, Ciri comes skidding down the stairs. She’s wearing a dress, too, an older one going by the way it barely covers her calves, with a pretty flower pattern along the hem. She’s even done up her hair in a braided bun. “I’m ready!”

Geralt does a double take. “What fo—you’re not coming with us.”

She rolls her eyes. “Yes, I am.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Dad!” she growls. It’s unfair. She calls him that so rarely, and Geralt loses all sense when she does. But he must be strong; if things go south and they get stuck in the Faerie realm, at least she’ll know to send Yen after them. “Look, it’s not like the Faerie are going to believe you when you turn up like that—”

“There are women who look like this too!” Lambert chimes in.

“Yes, but they all have better sense than to wear dresses that don’t fit them properly. And I’m trained; you’ve trained me yourself! You know I can handle it! And Jaskier’s my friend, too, I’m coming with you.”

“Ciri, you’re staying.”

“But—”

“ _That’s final_.”

*

Ciri cocks her head and scrutinizes the Faerie ring. (Look. Geralt _tried_ to make her stay… but she raised some good points. And she called him ‘dad’ again and tried to fake cry—‘tried’ being the operative word, as Ciri can’t fake cry worth shit, she just gets very red in the face and opens her eyes really widely—and Geralt had to give in. If Eskel and Lambert give him shit later… he will deserve it, but that’s another matter entirely).

“I’ll do the talking,” she says. Her tone is just a little pompous, likely because she pities them their, admittedly, shit plan. “You just stay behind me and try to look… matronly and protective.”

“Stay together,” Geralt says, and his brothers nod.

The Faerie ring isn’t large; a yard and half across, ringed by mushrooms of different kinds; intricate webcaps, pale destroying angels, and a couple of beautiful, red fly amanita. Holding hands, they step into its centre.

Darkness and starlight rush up to meet them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh! and btw, the dresses Lambert and Eskel are wearing are 100% based on the ones they wear in The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt
> 
> art by the eternally wonderful CatsAreMyWorld aka diedfromembarrassmentlikeasim ([Link here](https://diedfromembarrassmentlikeasim.tumblr.com/post/637920549647024128/show-chapter-archive)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this took a while, but here it is!
> 
> cw:  
> \- Faeries being simultanously smart as hell and dumb of ass  
> \- Geralt realizing that assumptions really does make an ass out of u  
> \- Jaskier being one hundred and twelve percent done with EVERYTHING

After days of royal squabbling, Mustardseed rather enjoys the boring tranquillity of guarding the ring entrances. The only thing bothering her out here are the birds, as all the Faeries are currently accounted for and no one will be dropping in unexpectedly—

A quartet of strangers appear in a ring, the one that the younger Goodfellow came through some days ago. Mustardseed, being in the middle of sucking nectar from a flower, simply blinks at them in astonishment. In front is a girl; Mustardseed isn’t overly familiar with human ages, but she’d call her a ‘youth’—even if humans seem to only attach that word to their males, silly creatures. The girl-youth is tall and pale-haired, and though there’s steely determination in her eyes, she also looks kind.

The three men—for they are men; Faeries always know these things, can tell a he from a she from a they from a xe—are all tall and broad with blazing, yellow eyes. Not that Mustardseed makes particular note of that, too busy staring at their horribly ill-fitting dresses. Are there no tailors in their world? Were they turned away and have to survive on someone else’s cast-offs? How awful. Mustardseed will endeavour to point them towards a Faerie tailor if they end up staying here. But how to do so without offending—

“Hello,” the pale girl says. One of the men is practically standing on top of her, glaring at Mustardseed. She subtly elbows him in the gut. “My name is… Duchess Fiona of Toussaint—” She is definitely _not_ from Toussaint, Mustardseed can tell that much “—and these are my ladies-in-waiting… Geri, Lambda, and Essi. We’ve come to negotiate a marriage contract with your queen.”

Mustardseed picks at the yellow flowers growing on her shoulders. Given that she’s usually an attendant to the queen, not a door guard, she knows perfectly well that there are no current marriage contracts being negotiated— _especially_ not with humankind. Her eyes slide from the ‘Duchess’ to the veiled ‘ladies-in-waiting’ and narrow. The eyes, the brawn, the scars she’s only just noting… not to mention the weaponry they’ve hidden in their busts. These are _Witchers._

Now, normally, Mustardseed would be perfectly capable of sending them on their way. As door guard, she has control of the rings, and a group of clearly upset Witchers and their lying ward spell bad news all around, no matter how dearly Faeries love chaos. But Witchers don’t usually come storming through a ring, lying their asses off— _and_ she knows that the younger Goodfellow has taken up with a Witcher… could one of these be _his_ Witcher? It must be!

She’d like to say that such sound logic is what convinces her to let them in. But it’s not. It’s two things: one, that they’ve so clearly scrambled to come up with a plan to gain entrance, which Mustardseed finds rather romantic; and two, they’re doing… such a poor job of it, it’s actually a little pitiful. (But mostly hilarious).

So Mustardseed says, “Of course! I’ll take you to the queen right away!” and skips into the forest. “Well, come on! The queen awaits!”

*

“I don’t care that it reached for you because it thought you were shiny, put that baby back where it came from or so help me,” Jaskier says, dramatically waving his hands around to let the queen know that he means _business._ He could be home right now, canoodling with his Witcher and getting all sweaty and gross and _wonderful_. But noooo.

“See! See!” the King whisper-shouts from behind Jaskier. The queen had thrown a beehive at him earlier, and he’s not keen at repeating that. Better to let Jaskier shield him. “Put it back!”

“Shan’t!” the queen yells back. The human baby on her lap squirms, gearing up for another hissy fit.

Jaskier throws his hands up. “Why do you even want a baby!”

Silence greets that question. He’d known it would. Faeries, in general, aren’t too keen on babies. Jaskier had spent his infant and toddler years as a duckling, which his parents were much better suited to handle than a baby. Maybe that’s why he still favours feathers while in his true skin.

Instead of answering, the queen orders them out.

The king keeps close to him, muttering, “You should just douse her with love-in-idleness—”

“I’m not making her fall in love with a donkey.”

“It worked _last time_. Robin would’ve—”

“My father is currently bent over a river pretending to be a willow. He’s tired of your shit, too.” While the king gasps in outrage, Jaskier adds, “Have you considered that she wouldn’t be running around snatching random human babies if you just gave her your attention?”

The king stares at him. Looks back at the throne room. “You really think so?”

“Melitele’s _tits._ ”

That’s enough royal cat-herding for today. He leaves the king in the dust and flees to his room, dramatically throwing himself into Moth Starveling’s lap—knocking the air out of her—and sighing heavily. “My father had the right idea when he became a willow. No horseshit, just water and canoodling otters. Even being a blue jay like my mother would be better. Imagine mocking the life-choices of dumb deer all day. What perfection.”

“Yes, yes, your life is very hard,” Moth says, patting his hair like you’d pet a sturdy and rather clingy dog, a heavy _pat, pat, pat._ “Summoned only for special occasions, free to wander the world the rest of the time, canoodling with Witchers—”

“I could be noodling my Witcher right now,” he moans.

“—and singing songs that make the people love you. Oh, what trial. Oh, what _horror!_ ”

With his acute abilities of deduction, Jaskier senses that his trials are not taken seriously, so he rolls off Moth’s lap and stalks to the window. _Sigh_. The weight of the world is truly upon him.

The Goodfellow’s quarters are high in the tree-castle and have an exquisite view of the Faerie Woods. Jaskier grew up with this view, and he’ll admit that he misses it sometimes. Strange trees compete for sunlight with giant flowers, and odd, glowing mushrooms glowing in every patch of shade. Down below, Faeries scurry to and fro, their varied shapes and sizes creating a living patchwork on the forest floor. There’s the many-limbed Cobweb, a cook in the royal kitchens; there’s Peaseblossom, the gardener, with his flower-petal wings of blue and pink; there’s Mustardseed with her shoulders dotted with little yellow flowers and her green veins, followed by an entourage of veiled men and their girl-charge—

Jaskier narrows his eyes. Leans out of the window.

“What are you doing?” Moth asks, fluttering up behind him. She squints down, too. “Is that—”

“ _Geralt_!” Jaskier cuts her off, leaning out of the window and screeching down at the Witchers and Ciri, all of whom freeze and look around as if searching for the voice of god. “ _Geralt! Look up, damn it! Ciri! Tell Geralt to look up! Up and left! THE OTHER LEFT—_ ”

*

Geralt has only just spotted Jaskier’s dark head before his bard disappears back inside the unusually large tree. A moment later, he re-emerges, carried by a winged Faerie. Heart in his throat, Geralt pushes his way to stand right below them, arms held out to catch Jaskier, _just in case._ The Faerie has it well in hand though, only dropping him when they’re a few meters from the ground; Geralt catches him easily and clutches him to his chest.

Which is when he gets his first good look at Jaskier and blurts, “Why do you have feathers?”

At the same time, Jaskier is asking, “Why are you wearing Yen’s old dress? In fact, why are you here? What is happening? Is something wrong?”

None of those questions are as important as, “Jaskier, _why do you have feathers_?” Are the Faerie trying to trick them? Have they given him something to turn him less Elvish? He _seems_ fine otherwise, completely at ease. The winged Faerie who’d flown him down appears only curious, not watchful. With her delicate, lace-like moth wings and spindly limbs, she doesn’t _look_ like a jailer, but she’d had the strength to carry Jaskier all the way down and doesn’t look worn out. Never trust a Faerie’s looks—they’re strong and fast and cunning.

Jaskier blinks at him. “I have feathers, because I _like_ feathers, Geralt.” A beat, and then, self-consciously, “Why? Don’t you like them?”

They’re handsome feathers, to be sure. Tiny, orange down fanning out from his eyes like laugh lines; thicker, white semiplumes running down his throat and mingling with the brazenly orange contour feathers that speckle his chest before mingling with his chest hair; azure and white down behind his short and sharply pointed ears, almost like little leaves; more azure contour feathers across his shoulders, down to the middle of his back and his biceps. A few, hair-like feathers that Geralt can’t name even grow on his forearms and legs, hints of blue amid the dark hair.

And then there are the _scales_. Colourful scales like gemstones, growing where his skin is tougher, his knees, elbows, heels, and knuckles—and even his fingertips, where the callouses from his lute-playing thrive.

This close, Geralt can tell that his _eyes_ are changed as well; they’re much to bright and sparkly. You could get lost in them. And his mouth is wider, more like a slash than a pout, hiding teeth that are definitely sharper than usual.

It slowly dawns on Geralt that he might have made some… erroneous assumptions. “You’re not an Elf,” he says.

Jaskier gapes. “I should think not!”

“You said—”

“I most certainly did _not ever say—_ ”

“I’m sorry, is this a rescue mission or what?” Lambert pipes up. “No? Can I take this veil off then? It’s _itchy_.”

“Please take it off!” the Faerie who’d led them here yells. She’s acquired a small bag of nuts and dried berries from somewhere. (And what seems like an entire crowd, too, all munching on snacks and staring avidly at the Witchers and Ciri. Even the moth-winged one has joined them). “And the dress, too! It’s a crime against fashion!”

“I’ll make you a lovelier one!” another calls.

“No, you bloody will not, I saw them first! I get to dress them!”

A scuffle breaks out.

Which is when a new Faerie comes storming out from the tree, hands on his hips and scowling at all and sundry. “Oi, what’s the meaning of this then?”

“Go back inside and make up with your wife!” Jaskier snaps at the new Faerie.

“I have a right to know what’s going on in my kingdom!”

“I said, _go back inside!_ ”

The Faerie King stomps angrily and goes back inside. Not too far, though; his elegant horns and the top of his head peak out from behind the doorjamb.

Completely ignoring Jaskier glaring at him, he flicks his fingers at Eskel and calls out, “Dibs on the quiet one.” Eskel blushes bright pink, so much so that not even his veil can hide it.

“ _No! No more adding people to your marriage!_ ”

“But—!”

“NO!”

This is _not_ what Geralt envisioned when he woke up this morning.


End file.
